


Vermilion

by honeybun, KonaKona



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Bad Coping Methods, Effeminate Dee, Emotionally constipated David, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Mention of substance abuse, Modern AU, Silly Misunderstandings, Slow Burn, Veteran David, and an overly emotional Dee, i'll add tags as i go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 23:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18860824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KonaKona/pseuds/KonaKona
Summary: David wasn't the type to believe in fate or destiny. Neither was he used to finding the answer to all of his questions in the colour of the setting sun. And yet, here he was, on his third floor balcony looking out at the horizon, as he found himself inextricably tied to someone he barely knew.





	Vermilion

 

Waves sway with little to no effect on anyone in the world. But just the same they carry on, the lapping softly caresses the wet rocks of the coast, the wisp of sea foam bubbles up and froths over the sand. While no one may observe it, while no one asks it to do such a thing, it is vital that it does.

Much like this, Davids eyes wash over Diarmuid’s face with a feeling of a gravitational pull, Diarmuid’s small mouth hides a kiss waiting to be given on its corners, his curls sway like seaweed against his forehead. His nose, the freckles there adorning him, speckling across the skin there like they’d love to cover it. Much like the tide, David’s love feels inevitable, returning like clockwork on the times he was blessed enough to see Diarmuid. Much like the tide it swells in David’s chest and he hears the roar of the sea in his ears as he looks at the honey golden eyes of the sweet creature in front of him.

David’s life changes in one day. He awakes to the same sunrise, but when he goes to bed that evening and looks out on downtown New York from his balcony, it is to an entirely new sunset. How had he never seen the light strike metallic lines upon the sky like that, a vermilion disk sinking lower and lower, and when had he missed the strange lavender mist that softly melted into the horizon before the dark indigo of nightfall seeps in.

He had felt so heavy in his own body, down to earth with a resounding crash from the moment he was born. Struggle, walking through the treacle that seemed to follow him from one place to another. From the army, the hospital, the streets, his relationships.

His hands patted down his sides as if searching for a lost wallet, a lightness about him. He found his wallet, located his keys, and still the feeling prevailed. David sat on a plastic chair by the railing and continued to look out onto the horizon. Had he forgotten something? His watch, no, that was still on his wrist, his weed? No, that was safely in the spot by his bed.

David was increasingly getting the feeling that what had left him might be his heart. He wasn’t particularly romantic, or at least he didn’t think so. He’d never had the chance. And yet he couldn’t shake this feeling, almost an assertion, that his heart had fully left his body.

He was sure, undeniably so, that should he find where Diarmuid lived, look in through the kitchen window, then there it would be, no blood, but beating, however that would work, against Diarmuid’s breast, his pocket, in his hand.

 

It doesn’t occur to David that he’d never had much of a thing for men- males, he doesn’t think. Although placing Diarmuid amongst the men he knew at his gym, or those he fought beside, makes him drag a calloused hand through his beard and scratch. He recalls back to times in the army, maybe a few pictures passed around, or before that in school when he bothered to go, magazines with untold things, wispy materials which left little the imagination, sweet faces that surely looked like girls, and then spread legs which decidedly revealed that wasn’t the case.

 

David had had a hard life, he could admit that. He was an honest man, simplistic. He had gone from town to town with his father, never stopping long, never settling. He didn’t care to think about that right now. But the point was he had never found it hard to move on, he didn’t stay in one place long unless he had reason to - his son now, who he happily kept to New York for - but now, so suddenly, when he’d never felt the need to know someone, know someone so intimately, deeply, honestly, he wanted that from Diarmuid.

 

David had turned up to the vet meeting as usual, well, not so much. He had done what was usual for him - which was wait outside, but unusual for others - in that he refused to actually sit down in the room. He listened to other vets share their story, he didn’t let them into his heart, he listened, but didn’t listen.

He was used to Jonathan’s voice, the group leader, gently coaxing more, then more brusque voices of the vets, Marty who had lost a limb to an IED and then a few others who had come home recently from a stint and were feeling civilian life grate against them like it hadn’t before. David knows that feeling.

He had been surprised - and David did not welcome surprises - when a different voice piped up. A woman? No. This group was for male vets, for whatever reason. Something about feeling comfortable in that space, not needing to act tough, whatever. David didn’t think that’d help much.

They were soft spoken, almost cheerful. Asking if anyone would like juice, no? Tea, no? Oh, coffee, okay, how many? Seven hands up.

 

David had frowned, his hands deep in his pockets, head down, thick curls falling a little into his eyes as he pulled his hood up and over his head. He needed a trim but, well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t the time, more like not the strength. David found it hard at times to get out of bed, let alone find his way to the barbers to smarten himself up.

 

“David, y’ look homeless,” Sam had said, his ex, he’d wrinkled his nose, looked away, not said anything.

 

“Is Jacob ready?” He’d asked, his voice now, even to him, seemed quiet, rough from disuse. She’d gone inside with a barely concealed judgemental look, hair flipped over her shoulder all shiny and clean. He peered a little into her apartment, everything was white or beige, clean, neat. She’d have a heart attack if she saw his place - he’d salvaged a lot of stuff and done it up nice when he felt he could be bothered - hers was all from a catalogue.

 

His face felt strange when he smiled at his son, after all he hadn’t done so since he dropped him off last weekend. His son, his boy. Jacob runs up to him like always and he swings him around, the only time he feels strong enough, good enough, his son laughing in his arms, smiling, he must be good for something then, right? If he can be good for this, just this, he’ll be happy, fucking smitten. As long as he’s nothing like his own dad, as long as he does right by his boy, then he can be satisfied.

 

He holds his hand as they walk to the subway, and then sits him on his knee. When they get home he runs him a bath, uses bubbles that he gets out from the cupboard which are only used for these times, mac and cheese from the box, dinosaur pyjamas and a story before bed. Jacob looks sleepy, well fed, happy, David feels so fiercely protective over that, that he sometimes doesn’t know where to put it, it makes him push himself at the construction site, his hand bleeding from his grip on the hammer. David’s chest hurts with how much he wants for his son, how hard he would work, will work, to give him everything.

 

Jacob asks David if he can sleep in his bed, to which of course he quickly agrees. He tucks him in as usual and hopes it won’t ever be different. Later on, after zero beers, zero joints (not while Jacob is in the apartment, it isn’t a struggle then) he carefully gets under the covers and focuses in on Jacob’s breathing, to which he can’t let himself lose track of. Lets his large paw as gently as possible stroke away the curls that are so much like his from Jacob’s forehead.

 

Jacob doesn’t think he looks homeless, he thinks David just looks like his Daddy, someone who’s always strong, who can pitch great softball, who makes him laugh and plays silly games whenever he wants. David thinks now, on the balcony, that Diarmuid might not think so either, Diarmuid might not think him weak, or stupid, or worthless. He thinks he’s his best self with his son, softer, warm, giving everything he’s got, and he wants, he doesn’t know how- but he wants for Diarmuid to have some of that too.

 

He had stormed away from the vet meeting, upset for some reason, annoyed at the sweet voiced stranger. Who was he to come to the meetings, acting cheerful, this wasn’t _cheerful_. He heard Marty crack a joke, and then John laughed too. The group he’d gotten used to being stoic and miserable was suddenly some sort of social. And what the fuck was that about?

 

David stewed for a week, contemplated not only going to the Monday night meeting, but the Wednesday night one too, just to get a glimpse of the owner of the voice, but he held himself back.

 

On Sunday night, Jacob returned tearfully to his mother - the tears had been on Jacob’s end, clinging to Papa, and then David had sat in his living room not moving for three hours until the dark had crept in and the only light source came from the standby light on the tv. He hadn’t cried, no. He had squeezed his blunt nails into his palm until the indents there were more like red, angry ravines. But that was besides the point. He had tried his best not to drink, but had still smoked, and then dulled himself a little, feeling that, if anything, he needed to numb his senses rather than sharpen them tomorrow.

 

He’d awoken at five am, the alarm on his phone ever faithful. He’d slept on the couch, the background noise of the television comforting. He wrinkled his nose as he lifted his shirt to smell. It took five minutes to shower, a quick in and out before it had the chance to get any more than lukewarm. Five minutes to get dressed, fumbling around in the dark to find a shirt which fit, shuffle on the same jeans with oil stains. Ten minutes to the subway, where David paid attention to the comforting tempo of his boots against the pavement. Another twenty to his station where he could blissfully close his eyes and stop the rising panic when the people around him felt to close, too loud, their own emotions battering against him like a storm. He ate a fried breakfast at a greasy spoon near his current construction site and planned what he was going to say to the strange voice that had invaded his meetings and ruined them. What would he say? He was fully aware it was ridiculous, but the voice had niggled a hole at the back of his mind all week like a mosquito you could hear at night, not sure where it was lurking until it flew too close to your ear.

 

The vibrations of his hammer helped to shake some of the funk out of David, and by lunchtime he was feeling more himself, whatever that might mean. He quickly finds his wallet and checks around him before flipping it open, looking at the clear place most people put their license, but where he keeps a picture of Jacob. Jacob on his knee on his first birthday, he knows Sam is on the other side so it’s folded over, the cracks along the edge warping the photograph a little.

 

There was a new hire who kept attempting to be his friend, and hadn’t seemed to notice yet that David was not interested in friends. He would hopefully get the hint soon, because David liked to sit at the roof and eat his lunch, maybe glance at the picture of Jacob again before starting back up. He couldn’t work his phone well but he could write out a message to Sam asking if his boy had slept well, he wouldn’t get a reply, probably, but it might make the nervous tick of his hand calm a little.

 

Soon enough it was time to clock out, and as per David’s strategy, he would arrive at the vet meeting early in order to get a look at the stranger.

 

It had been a harsh Winter already, and David could feel it dig deep into his bones through his slightly threadbare jacket - he would buy a new one, sometime - and arriving at the small church hall was somewhat a relief. David raised an eyebrow and wondered what his rabbi might say about attending some weird vet meeting in a Christian church, but he hadn’t talked to his rabbi in some time, and these meetings were highly ‘recommended’ i.e. mandatory to attend should he wish to collect his benefit. And he dearly did. He and the session leader had an agreement - he would nod at the man upon coming in and safely stay out of the way, out of eyesight where he preferred. Then Jonathan would tick him off the register and that would be that.

 

His boots squeaked slightly on the highly polished floors, he could smell the soup kitchen they ran at the weekends for the homeless. He bit into his cheek and looked around, feeling ridiculous, knowing, good God, that he was ridiculous. Finding offence at a new attendant to the meeting, finding offence in the improved dispositions of his fellow veterans, but most of all that soft and cheerful voice that seemed to mock everything David was suffering from. He could feel his hands threatening to shake, a loud buzzing in his head threaten to become piercing as the thought of this unwelcome change pokes at David’s tense muscles. David closes his eyes and counts to ten, swallows it down.

 

“Ah, David! I thought I might find you here!” David swivels around and he cannot help the stance he takes on instinct, body tense and a hard diagonal line. Jonathan doesn’t seem to realise, “You haven’t met my new recruit, no? Diarmuid-”

That’s when David realises that fully behind the man is a small young thing who looks helplessly shy. He raises a petite hand and waves.

 

“H-helloo~” David grunts. This unfortunately doesn’t seem to deter him, his cheeks are flushed and freckled, his eyes look too hopeful, like a puppy, like he’s happy to meet David or something, pleased to be there, happy to see David all broken up and forced to come for help- “M-my name is Diarmuid! Or Dee, I don’t mind!” Hopelessly chipper, stammering at times, and now he’s shyly shuffling from his hiding place behind Jonathan, “Jonathan told me about you-“ oh _wonderful-_ “You’d rather stay outside right? I kind of want to do that too sometimes,” Dee frowns and then grimaces a little at his poor phrasing, “I always worry I say the wrong thing-“

 

“Now, now, Dee,” Jonathan interrupts, “You do well enough,” Jonathan looks at David and laughs a little “He only writes down a few notes for me, after all, you know, with my arthritis-” Diarmuid flushes and looks towards the floor, mumbling something or other about what if he makes the wrong face, what if- David tries to tune him out because listening to him makes him panic much like when Jacob is upset and starting to fuss over going back to Mommy’s, or when he sees someone who couldn’t afford their metro ticket spot the inspector.

 

“Oh!” David looks down with alarm (because, after all, Diarmuid seems around a foot shorter than him) at the strange sound that popped its way out of the boy’s mouth, “David would you like tea!” His brown eyes zeroed in on David’s, who felt markedly uncomfortable.

 

David cleared his throat and tried to find his words again, it shouldn’t be too bad now that he’d had Jacob only a day ago, “Fine,” no manners though, that was alright, for now, that was good enough.

 

Diarmuid didn’t seem to notice and beamed, before David knew it he was following Diarmuid to the kitchen. The slight creature wore an oversized pale blue jumper and David was quick to notice it wasn’t the only one, underneath was another long sleeved sweater, and even beneath that he could see something creamy and soft looking. David blocked out thoughts of what the boys in his platoon would have said about a tiny thing that could obviously not regulate their body temperature-

 

“Just standard black tea is okay?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“With milk?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“A lot or?”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“U-um and sugar?”

 

“No.”

 

David hadn’t ever felt so ridiculous in his life, he didn’t think he’d ever had a cup of tea, probably. Had he? Why- at such a point David suspected that due to his strategic plan being hijacked he was a wandering around without a clear objective. His original plan to hate whoever had ruined his group had quickly gone to pot as soon as he realised that the stranger was merely a nervous, freckled, pretty boy.

 

David watches with distress as Diarmuid sashays about the kitchen and collects up mugs and sugar and milk. The kettle is switched on and David twitches at the noise at it reaches a boil, everything feeling a little too close to his skin, a little too real and rubbing him up the wrong way.

 

Diarmuid puts down a mug in front of himself with purple primroses, and David’s has blue stripes. David doesn’t say a word, he thinks that at this point a normal person might have stopped chattering but Diarmuid had been rambling on about nothing since David had agreed to a cup of tea. It was, if anything, soothing, actually, washing over David and asking nothing of him. He found himself listening anyway, Diarmuid was talking about how the snow slush got into his shoes easily, something about how his bus route goes past the park, what food he planned to make that evening, this and that, on and on. David let his hands rest around the mug, liking the warmth that seeped through the cheap china. He let his large fingers circle around the handle and goes to take a sip.

 

Instantly he wants to spit it out again. God, why the fuck is it so sweet? Diarmuid must have noticed something wrong because his constant stream of conversation had stopped.

 

“Oh- too hot?” David shakes his head and grimaces as he swallows.

 

Diarmuid’s brow furrows and then his eyes widen in realisation. “Oh! Is that my tea!” He fusses for a while and takes a sip from the flowery mug in front of him, his nose wrinkling too, “Ugh, yes, this one’s yours - it’s bitter.”

 

David takes a moment to not look incredulously at Diarmuid. Diarmuid switches their cups so now David has the one with the flowers, and he has the one with the stripes, Diarmuid looks like he regrets the need to do so, too. Like drinking ‘bitter’ tea might be less appalling should he have the floral mug. But instead he has to put up with, what seems to be five sugars, and a striped blue mug.

 

“You got any teeth left in your head?” David’s voice sounds a little rusty, a little strange, teasing, or _attempting_ to tease.

 

Diarmuid blinks at him for a second and then smiles again, “I have perfect teeth! I have a baby tooth still actually, do you know if that’s normal-“

 

Something bubbles up in David’s chest and it turns into a strangled chuckle, “That means you’re still a kid, kid.”

 

Diarmuid manages to look- what is it? A pout? He looks like a Disney character, _jeez_.

 

“My doctor says you still have a potential to grow until you’re twenty-five, so-“

 

“So you got another fifteen to go?”

 

Diarmuid goes red and splutters, “No! I am _not-_ “

 

Jonathan takes this moment to poke his head around the door, smiling, eyebrow raised, “We’re about to start the session, so if you boys wrap up here-“ David doesn’t think he’s ever been a boy, and he resents now the fact that Diarmuid seemed to pull such a reaction from him. He doesn’t like the feeling in his chest, like he’s a piggy bank that’s been turned topsy turvy and shaken for all its coins, he feels like those things should be saved, not just for anyone.

 

They take up their tea, and David is blocking the idea that Diarmuid’s lips touched the rim just here, and his touched that mug just _there_ , and they, for once (for David), enter the hall. David knows the voices, and the faces, but hasn’t quite matched them up. He feels instantly uncomfortable, and picks a seat nearest to the door. For whatever inexplicable reason, Diarmuid sits next to him.

 

Diarmuid rummages around in a backpack - useless thing, tiny, it wouldn’t fit a tent, or supplies, what else is a backpack for? It’s a peach colour with a fox on the logo, and Diarmuid pulls out a notepad and a clipboard from it, a pen with a strawberry pattern across it. David forces himself not to look any deeper into the bag, and not to look too long at the sweet little delicate fingers that hold the pen. That’s just not his MO right now.

 

His shoulders ache a little, a strain in his neck from trying his best to neither look at Dee and be overly aware of him drinking from surely the _exact_ place David did, lips on lips- and also trying his very best not to feel eyes on him around the circle. They’d all said a little about themselves, Marty had nodded at him, and then James and Nate too as they’d gone around. David had dreaded this part.

 

“Name’s David… Five years, special forces...” Fuck, what else, “That’s it,” nice one David.

 

Jonathan, blessed be, does not push for David to talk any further, and turns lastly to Diarmuid.

 

“Hello everybody! I’m Dee, you all know. I’ve got blueberry and lemon or red velvet this week-“ Diarmuid shuffles around beside him with some tupperware boxes. David had never been here for this part and how was he to know that it had turned into a goddamn baked goods sale. Each of the vets takes a muffin but David.

 

“You could try both if you’re not sure?” Diarmuid looks up at him with what can only be described as puppy dog eyes.

 

David, who feels angry again for nothing, shakes his head and says in a clipped tone, “They aren’t kosher.” Dee turns red and apologises.

 

David hates himself after that, crosses his arms and bites his cheek again, hopes he’s taught Dee a lesson in not being friends with big, bad, mean men just like him. He reminds himself of literally every single meal he’s had for several months now and how none of them have been kosher, and punishes himself further by watching as Dee fussily wrings his hands together as he packs away the remaining muffins.

 

David does not hang around to say goodbye, because seeing Dee not want to talk to him might be worse.

 

As he walks home the wind bites against his skin even more so than before, he tugs his jacket closer around him and pulls his hoodie up around his face even more. With every stomp of his boot on the pavement he imagines that deeply embarrassed, sheepish look on Diarmuid’s face, ‘oh’ he’d said, he’d even apologised. He’d watched as Dee had ducked his head and kept quiet for the rest of the session, carefully tucking curls around his ear to concentrate on writing notes should Jonathan ask him to. David didn’t know why he was there, what could a soft thing like him do, what good would it do putting soft things like that with men like him.

 

David throws himself at work even more so that week, so much so that he almost dislocates his shoulder one day, and when he comes home he’s too exhausted to do any thinking, all he accomplishes is falling asleep on top of his bed covers still clothed.

 

Finally, finally, Friday rolls around. The only solace in life that he can find is his son, that’s all it’s ever been. He gets to pick him up from school this time, no Sam telling him he looks homeless, so he doesn’t have to get his hair cut for another week now at least. Jacob shows him drawings and paintings from pre-school, all of which David plans to stick onto his fridge which is littered with nothing but Jacob works of art. David takes him to the pizza place at the corner of his block where they have their usual. Julia over the counter tells Jacob he’s growing up fast and that’s when David wants to cry. His son happily bobs around on the sofa while they eat pizza slices and watch Finding Nemo on television. He gets the bubble bath out again and Jacob giggles so much it fills up the apartment with noise and David could be drunk off of it. The weekend goes too quickly.

 

It’s Monday again and David feels his jagged edges rub raw wounds against him. He’s fucking tired. Again with the five am alarm, cramped subway, the noise in his ear as the new hire struggles to get the hint that he isn’t wanted. David seriously considers not going to the session of course, not only because of the huge fuss over nothing he caused last week, the guilt he feels over Diarmuid’s shy little face growing redder and redder, but also he doesn’t want to get stirred up again. It’s no good if he’s stirred up, he has to stay calm, stable, numb. If he lets himself he won’t be able to function. But no, David pushes through, because not showing up would be proving there was a problem, not showing up could mean he wouldn’t get his benefit, and then Jacob might not be able to go on some class trip at the end of the month when bills need to be paid, or he wouldn’t be able to give him what he wants or needs, then Jacob’ll know Daddy’s a deadbeat. Probably. So David goes. David scuffs his boots all the way to the Church hall and doesn’t lift his head up until he sees the number 14 bus stop right outside the gates. He’s early, God knows why he’s done that.

 

He bites at the skin around his nails as he goes in, finds his way to the empty communal kitchen, makes himself a God awful coffee and closes his eyes as the bitter, too-hot sting gives him something to focus on a little, some light relief.

 

“Oh!” Not that noise, fucking hell can’t he have a moment of peace- “David!!”

 

Diarmuid is visibly chipper, but when is he not? David quickly reminds himself with the visual he’s been torturing himself with over the last week, Dee looking embarrassed and upset with himself, perfectly baked muffins in hand.

 

“Hello,” well isn’t he a charmer.

 

Diarmuid strides on with boundless optimism, “I bought you something! You can eat these right? They’re salted caramel!” David looks down and frowns, completely bemused, suspiciously gazing at the brown glazed muffins, “Y’know, um, kosher salt, right?” Dee’s shoulders twitch up and he smiles.

 

David can’t help it, but a laugh bubbles up, “That’s- that’s not what kosher means-“ He’s tearing up, fuck, kosher salt- oh, man- He wishes he could tell Dee if being kosher was that easy, even David would be able to do it without thinking-

 

He catches a look at Diarmuid’s face and instantly halts, a large hand reaching out almost instinctively, “Uh-“

 

Diarmuid looks like he might cry, “Oh, um…” silence, terrifying, absolutely fucking terrifying, David can even hear the buzz from the microwave. Diarmuid wraps his arms slowly around himself, seemingly holding himself together “I’m sorry, that’s- I’m so stupid, gee, um,” Diarmuid squeezes his eyes shut and laughs hollowly, “I’m so dumb, aha- my Dad always says I don’t think, y’know, oh Diarmuid-“ He’s gazing up at the ceiling like he might cry, oh shit, fuck, you really fucked up this one old man, fuck, David, _shit,_ “He says I’m such an idiot, I always rush into things, I don’t think,” Dee tries to lighten up his voice to be sing-song happy but it just sounds hysterical and David has a lump in his throat now that he can’t just swallow.

 

“No,” David hadn’t realised his hand had travelled that far, but it cups Diarmuid’s shoulder entirely, he’s frowning, and looks vaguely menacing, “You’re not stupid, don’t say that, don’t listen, he’s wrong, fuck, I didn’t, I’m not- You’re not dumb-”

 

This was apparently not the right thing to say as Diarmuid looks at him with those wide, pretty, pretty brown eyes, “You- you don’t think so? I’m just so _a-annoying-_ ” And oh fuck, he’s crying, oh shit-

 

David isn’t sure why in that moment he does what he does but much later on he can only conclude that it was love, stupid, dumb, love, somehow, but he reaches his other hand into the tupperware box and takes out a muffin just to stuff it into his stupid, big mouth.

 

“They’re really good,” David says, words muffled by muffin, and they really, really are.

 

“S-should you be eating those-” Diarmuid frowns but smiles again, laughing a little, thank God, thank God. But still tears from the corners of his eyes make his eyes seem like pools of warm honey, and David can’t help but look. Now… and now Diarmuid is looking at David a whole new way, neck craning to the side a little, voice small and raspy, “You really don’t think I’m dumb and annoying?”

 

David can’t help it, doesn’t seem in control of his limbs anymore, much less the words that come out of his mouth or his murky emotions, David’s arms of their own volition circle around Diarmuid’s small shoulders and he brings the young man closer to his chest. He doesn’t think he’s hugged anyone- held anyone, not in forever, no one but his son.

 

David lets himself take what solace he finds in that small communal kitchen one cold day in November. Whether it’s the warmth of Diarmuid laying his head against David’s chest, or the ticklish feeling at the back of his arm when a small hand comes up to grasp in his hoodie there. He isn’t sure what time passes, and he says a short prayer in thanks because Jonathan doesn’t intrude on this moment, no one does.

 

When they pull away Dee wipes his eyes and David looks away. When he turns back it’s to another smile, one he hasn’t seen on Dee before. Shy and sweet, Dee’s fingers are twiddling together and he lets out a little huff of a laugh.

 

“You’re really not,” David says, softer than he knows he’s capable, and Dee fixes him with a look he knows he can’t receive from him. It isn’t his, surely, not for him. He’s looking at him like he means something, he’s looking at him like he did something good, he’s looking at him like he’s worthwhile. David hasn’t been that for anyone in a long time, and he feels the old need awaken in his bones, an ancient feeling rise to the skin, a want and a need to be known and loved, needed.

 

And there it was.

 

That brought David here, to the balcony. Looking out on a sunset he’d never seen, with eyes suddenly fresh, something that felt like an open wound gaping in his chest, every breath of air stinging his lungs. He could distinctly feel the follicles of his hair moving in the wind, feel every part of himself quiver somehow, on the edge of something new. David wanted to stay out here, wait until sunrise, do it all again, would it be different? What might happen tomorrow, what might it feel like, what could he do? These questions had never posed themselves before, these questions clutched at the very fibre of who David found himself to be. It felt painful to even think of waiting until Wednesday, it felt painful to think about having to see Diarmuid again and relive the entire thing.

 

He had waited after the meeting, he’d taken three more muffins, he’d circled Diarmuid like the moon in orbit, he knew he had. Diarmuid had smiled at him any chance he could get, David had even spoken to him during their break, Dee excitedly whispering back. Dee told him that he liked to use his clipboard because it made him feel important and shit, David laughed again, fucking laughed like a fool - which he assuredly was. He knew the others were looking at him, of course they were, and he couldn’t care.

 

He had lingered outside while everyone left, scuffing the toe of his boot against the asphalt. Dee had scurried out eventually without Jonathan, tiny peach backpack full of empty tupperware. David must have looked like a maniac then, stepping out from the shadows, hoodie up, beard and hair untamed, a foot taller and a universe wider than Dee. Diarmuid - worriedly - just squeaked in surprise and then fluttered his hands about as he giggled- _giggled_. David wanted to ask Diarmuid if he carried around pepper spray but he didn’t think this was the time.

 

“Which way you walkin’ home, kid?”

 

Diarmuid obviously had some objection to the nickname because his face flushed red, but he pursed his lips and then smiled, “Gonna take the Metro.”

 

“Which station?”

 

And with that, David had invited himself to walk Diarmuid part of the way home. Diarmuid lived up to his reputation and chattered throughout, and David listened - really listened. When Diarmuid talked about how he liked to bake he heard how he liked to make something from his own hands for people to enjoy, he liked to give the vets something in that small way. When Diarmuid talked about what books he saw people reading on the subway, ‘oh they always look so clever, I’m not too clever, so I guess I don’t read that much, my Dad said I was always a slow reader, y’know’ David felt his hand twitch again to encircle Diarmuid’s shoulders but not now, not yet, he wondered at what other things lurked in Diarmuid’s head, things he said so easily and smoothly they must have been repeated to him on multiple occasions.

 

“Isn’t it pretty though?”

 

“Huh?” David put his head up and looked towards the direction Diarmuid’s eyes led to.

 

“Even though it’s cold you get the best sunsets, right?”

 

Powder blue and pink clouds were mottling the sky as the sun sank lower and lower.

 

“ _Ver-mil-ion_ ,” Diarmuid sounded out carefully, “That’s the deep red, right?” He looked up to David with that same soft smile, and wrinkled his nose “I can say it but I don’t think I can spell it.”

 

David let his hand go where it may, and squeeze Diarmuid’s shoulder. Diarmuid huffs a laugh at first, and when David’s hand remains, he walks a little closer, letting his hand knock against David’s leg.

 

“This your stop, kid?” David asks, subway station undeniably in front of them, steam rising from the vents by the sidewalk.

 

Diarmuid looks towards the entrance and swallows, looks up towards David, “See you next week, right?”

 

“Sure, sure,” David nods and looks towards the ground. Diarmuid is merciful and makes his goodbye short, David looks up quickly after he turns his back to watch his curls bounce down the stairs to the subway.

 

David looks above the awnings and between the buildings all around him, until he sees again the sliver of sky which shows red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermillion, gold. He watches for awhile and then he goes home to do it some more, watching the palette change, watching a new sky, a new something starting, perhaps a new beginning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's been a good long while since I posted anything! And this is my first work for this pairing.
> 
> I fell in love with these two and me and my partner really wanted to share our favourite AU with you, so we hope you enjoy it. Please leave any questions you have below - you can also find me on tumblr @ weepingstar
> 
> I was really concerned I wouldn't do them justice, and because we've been talking about them for so long, it feels almost hard to fit everything in? Anyway, please enjoy.
> 
> as always, lots of love to you, sabo xox


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